


Pressure

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bondage, Choking, Dom/sub, I don't know what other tags to use, Masturbation, Other, Sounding, Suggestions welcome, Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-10 04:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12904407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: “That’s not what I’ve asked you to do,” Tarn rumbles. “Nor is this flippant pretense. You know what I want.”“On the contrary, Tarn, I’m sure pretense is exactly what you’ve come to me for.”





	1. Chapter 1

Tarn’s shoulders flex against the bonds as he tries to settle in them, but Pharma hasn’t allowed any space for settling, opting instead for locking them shut on the tightest setting. He’s constricted in chains and bands engineered to leave not a millimeter of tolerance on Tarn’s specific frame and this specific chair, luxuriously manufactured almost more like a throne than a chair, reining him in as he reigns over nothing—all by Pharma’s design, and all at Tarn’s request.

“I can hear your joints creaking,” Pharma says, taking care where he places his feet in front of him just so he can feign disinterest with Tarn’s struggling. “You really should let me give you a check-up.” He stops directly in front of Tarn, his hands tucked behind his back under his wings, and smiles. “I could oil you down. We could make a night of it.” He quirks his head to the side, imagining it might look friendly, possibly flirtatious. He doesn’t care which interpretation lands, because from where Tarn is, there’s very little he can do about it anyway. Not if he wants the doctor to continue.

“That’s not what I’ve asked you to do,” Tarn rumbles. Under the bonds are a complicated system of interlocking red rope in knots around his frame, which had been difficult to get him to submit to since he couldn’t be immediately convinced of the purpose of them. He twists his head slightly, as it’s the only part of himself he can move besides his fingertips, though the knots do lay nicely around his throat. “Nor is this flippant pretense. You know what I want.”

Pharma steps around, circling behind Tarn again. “On the contrary, Tarn, I’m sure pretense is exactly what you’ve come to me for.” He reaches for a knot on Tarn’s back and gives it a sharp tug upwards, aware of exactly where those sensations land on Tarn’s frame…in the creases of sensitive joints, teasing the outlines of his interface equipment. “You’re a masochist… All the torturing you do, and none of it left for you… But you’re scared to admit it, except to me.” He circles around to the front again, dropping his hands one each on Tarn’s spread knees. “Don’t worry, though, I understand. I know exactly what all my patients need.”

“And yet after nearly an hour, you’ve done nothing but tie me up and talk at me. If you think all I need is a lecture, Doctor, I may have to readjust the terms of our agreement.” He draws a deadly sharp claw across the chair arm where it rests to make a loud scraping noise, drawing Pharma’s gaze.

The doctor’s smile thins as he leans on Tarn’s knees. Tarn’s threats pass through him like air. He knows how badly the DJD leader wants to be controlled, and this is just part of the game, just like the restraints. They both know Tarn’s immobility is superficial. Had he a need to, he would be free of them, and he could do whatever he liked to Pharma, regardless of their agreement. But he won’t, Pharma knows, because he wants to see what he has to offer him. “Open your panels,” he commands.

Tarn waits a second before heeding, purely out of stubbornness, and probably some ridiculous mind games he imagines he’s playing to maintain a balance of power. His spike pressurizes in a quick, easy flash, betraying how much he’s been aroused simply by having had Pharma incapacitate him. But Pharma’s eyes barely skim over his plug, drifting lower instead. He slips his thumb under the rope pulled tight just at the center of the panel, dragging it directly up the center while applying quite a bit of pressure, which he knows Tarn feels because of how quickly and deeply his field sours.

“Saving yourself?” Pharma’s voice is incredibly light, and he knows just how to flick his optics upwards at the last second to Tarn’s face to achieve the full effect.

“You can make do,” is all Tarn says. No hint of embarrassment, and there’s definitely a challenge in there, but Pharma does wonder if he’s still sealed. He’s 50-50 on where to put his shanix. Wouldn’t it be just quaint enough if he was?

His smile doesn’t drop, and neither does the topic. “Are you sure? I can make it very nice for you. Stuff you full of a nice thick plug, a real bumpy one? It’ll stay, with the rope. I could leave you here with one buzzing in you until you cry and beg me to turn it off. I wonder how long that would take? Or would you run out of fuel and go into stasis first?”

“Make do,” Tarn hisses, his voice bordering on dangerous.

It’s become another part of the game, though. How far can Pharma push before he lashes out? He rolls his thumb right over where Tarn’s node would be, imagining it twitching under his metal. The rope rides along the ridge. “How many times would you overload, with a big fat spike stuck in you and this rope rubbing your node raw? You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you? You’re getting nice and wet behind that panel—”

“ _Enough_ ,” Tarn’s tone cuts back, sharp and heavy and final. Pharma feels the distinct tinge of pain cut through his spark and shakes out his shoulders as if brushing off an unwanted touch. He has an urge to rub at his chest, but knows it won’t help. Interesting, to experience that particular gift of his first hand. He draws his hand back, avoiding the nearest contact with Tarn’s spike using the apt grace of a flier.

He says nothing as he backs away and turns towards his table. He makes a point of making a lot of noise when really he’s just trying to ignore Tarn. It works nicely. When he lifts one instrument and holds it up to the light, baiting the question, he gets it.

“What is that?” Tarn asks, keeping all hints of curiosity out of his inquiry, leveling at neutral though his eyes flick over it with distrust.

The device is a long, straight, needle-like object with a ring on the end, and Pharma tilts it so it glints in the dim light of the room. “This is a sound,” Pharma says matter-of-factly. “Would you like me to put it in you?”

“In _where?_ ”

Pharma’s smile curves wickedly. He’s still but for his eyes flicking towards Tarn’s hungry spike, then back to his face to see the reaction.

Tarn is silent for the first time.

“I see,” Pharma says, setting the sound back on the table.

“I haven’t said anything,” Tarn admits, cueing Pharma in as clearly as if he’d begged for it. He would like that… He’d like it very much. But Pharma won’t give it to him yet.

He leans against the table, his posture relaxing purposefully as Tarn’s remains rigid. “You seem tense. Are you nervous?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what?” Pharma asks. There’s a swollen pause. Something lands squarely in Pharma’s processor. “You doubt me.”

Tarn’s optics narrow behind the mask. “Yes,” he admits. He has no reason not to.

“I can tell.”

“Your words were persuasive at the time, but I would readily believe you capable of lying to buy yourself time to escape. You’re in a precarious position, and promises are as easy to make as to break.”

“This isn’t about the overloads, then. I can get you T-cogs. That’s easy. This—” Pharma taps the back of his hand against the table, making the sound ring out, “—is harder. But I’m just as good at it.” He stops in his tracks and turns his head thoughtfully. “Maybe better.” He paces forward again, leans his hands on Tarn’s thighs again, but this time, snakes them up and comes to a pause at the joints, fingers resting on cables. “Perhaps a demonstration?” Pharma presses his fingers nimbly between the thick connecting cords, navigating deeper before Tarn can even respond.

“Normally I don’t like giving them out for free, but seeing as you’re such a special customer, well…” He twitches his fingers around his target and Tarn suddenly seizes. The legs of the chair quake and there’s a silent sound ringing through the room with the force of how he’s jerked in this sudden, powerful, involuntary overload. His spike twitches and lubricant oozes from it, though not enough to make him truly spill. It was too abrupt for his frame to reconcile what was happening. His fans flick on as an afterthought as fading charge ripples outwards from the core, basest wiring of his array, and Tarn’s field bristles with confusion and furious afterglow.

Pharma waits until Tarn is ready to speak again a few seconds later. “What did you—” He tweaks his fingers again and Tarn careens back into pleasure. This time, a bit of transfluid jumps from his spike.

“I’m sorry, you were asking me a question and I interrupted you.” Pharma gives a light little laugh. “The second one is even better, isn’t it?” They twitch again, and Tarn gives a thick, gurgling groan. “But after the third one, it’s not so nice, is it? You start to get a bit of static.”

A few more seconds, then another twitch, and a choking sound from Tarn’s throat. “And now it’s a bit itchy, isn’t it? Doesn’t even feel like an overload, but it is.” Twitch. “Core temperature’s running too high, and that itch just won’t quit. It doesn’t feel very good if I do this—” He grabs a knot on Tarn’s chest and twists, tightening the rope around all his sensitive joints, sliding it tighter against his sealed valve cover, bristling against the base of his spike. “—or this.” Pharma twists the other direction, this time tugging the ropes around Tarn’s neck and chest and shoulders, the ones stuck between his frame and his treads, while he twitches his fingers again.

Tarn gives another groan, and Pharma can hear his vents picking up as his fans threaten already to burn themselves out. “If I do this a few more times—” Twitch, twitch, “—You’ll have so much charge in you that you’ll be threatening to melt down your internal systems if I did it again.” He gives the cord between his fingers one last rough tweak and Tarn gives a loud, rumbling groan.

His body is all noise now, compared to the stoic silence from before. Pharma can tell just by hearing that two of his fans near his core have burned out, as if the acrid smell of melted metal wasn’t enough of a clue. His stature has relaxed into the bonds enough that he no longer looks all straight edges, and the weight of his metal heaving as he tries to suck in gasping, cooling breaths from the air in the room is audible when it creaks and squeaks.

Pharma nimbly withdraws his fingers and traces a soft circle on Tarn’s thigh, waiting.

“You expect praise,” Tarn posits.

“I expect acknowledgement,” Pharma corrects.

“You have permission to continue. I’ll make a decision afterwards.” He sounds tired, burnt out after however many overloads Pharma has just inflicted on him, but perhaps the slightest bit more compliant than before.

“Wonderful,” Pharma says. He turns back to his table once again, leaving Tarn to even out his systems. “Do you need fuel?” His fingers flit over a cube he has stored in the drawers, having anticipated something like this might have happened.

“No,” Tarn says. His spike still stands erect between his legs, dripping droplets of transfluid. The overloads had bypassed that part of his interface array, leaving it pressurized and ready, so long as his arousal can catch up. Pharma has no doubt that it will.

“I thought you might have stopped me,” Pharma muses, busying himself with sterilizing the sound and preparing the other necessary components.

Tarn makes some sort of pompous noise, marred by the shallow vents he’s still sucking in. “If you thought I would _beg for mercy_ , Doctor, then you fail to understand who I am. As a Decepticon— As one of Megatron’s _chosen, elite soldiers_ —”

“Spare me your tepid doctrine, Tarn, I promise you I’ve heard it, and it has failed to sway me,” Pharma says, turning to hold up a hand. He proceeds back over to Tarn with his tools in hand. The sound is looped around his pinky, and his fingers curl around a bottle. He pops the cap on it once he’s set between Tarn’s legs again and turns it over Tarn’s spike, squeezing generously. Rivulets of the stuff cascade down Tarn’s spike. He sets the bottle down and wraps his other hand around it, squeezing down, then up. His grip isn’t quite loose enough to be kind and pleasurable, but it’s not like the earlier punishment he’d bestowed on the DJD leader.

Tarn shifts under his bonds again.

“Like it? It’s nice and cool, isn’t it? Numbs you a little?”

“It wouldn’t have been my choice to _remove_ sensation,” Tarn replies sulkily.

“Ever the skeptic.” Pharma squeezes his fingers up to the head, letting lubricant pool in the gap between them and squishing his thumb over the tiny opening. “You’ll feel what’s on the inside _much better_ like this,” he says, holding Tarn’s spike steady as he twirls the sound around his finger and poises it over the little hole. “Ready?” he asks with another devious flick of his optics.

“Don’t waste my time with your questions, Doctor.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you sounded a little excited,” Pharma muses, but he begins squeezing the tip of the object inside, pressing down with a steady pressure.

“I suppose it’s fortunate for both of us that you know better, then.”

“Well, I’m sure I’ll win you over.” Pharma struggles to contain his glee when he hears Tarn’s vents hitch. At first, the numbing lubricant might have seeped inside enough that he couldn’t feel more than a slight pressure, but now he expect that’s melting down into a more potent kind of heat as the sound slips in deeper. Slowly, the little instrument sinks into Tarn’s thick, solid spike, drawing more and more soft breaths and moans from the DJD leader’s intake that Pharma relishes. “Not that I’d expect you to right away, after what I just did to you, but don’t overload,” Pharma tells him.

“ _What_ —” Tarn interrupts himself with a moans as Pharma slides the sound in still deeper. Only a small fraction of it remains unseated in his spike. “What is the _point_ of all this, then?”

“I hadn’t thought you’d be so naive,” Pharma muses, his smile growing deeper and more wicked the more Tarn’s plug twitches as it’s stuffed up by his little instrument. “The more you want it, the better it is, my dear, dear Decepticon. The point is, you’re at my mercy. You’ll overload when I allow you to.” The ring sinks down snug against Tarn’s spike, sitting in a bead of his own transfluid and the lubricant Pharma had poured onto him. “There,” he says. “Don’t you look nice and presentable?”

“I am not your toy, Pharma,” Tarn hisses.

“Oh?” Pharma pauses with his finger tips wrapped delicately around the ring. He unfurls them and gives it a little tap, noting the surge in Tarn’s field that results. Stepping in closer between Tarn’s knees, he starts tapping at a steady pace against it. “Then be my instrument. Let me play you… I’ll draw out that voice of yours…” Tarn grunts again at this new sensation jolting through his spike, filled and unyielding and out of his control.

Pharma curls his hand around Tarn’s spike again, keeping a finger pinned to the top of the sound with the other, and gives it another hearty squeeze from base to tip. The plates distort and the biolights flash under his grip, and Tarn gasps, twitching in his restraints again. His fingers flex against the armrests, and his spike oozes more liquid out the impossible gap between itself and the sound.

Pharma mentally congratulates himself. He imagines his pleasure is on par with Tarn’s confliction. His spike, uncomfortably plugged and restricted, remains stimulated out of confusing pressure for pleasure. His spike is nearly sensationless from the outside, but Pharma is certain he can feel each undulation of his hand gripping him from the inside, constricting around the solid metal rod inside it. It’s a special blend of pleasure and pain that Pharma imagines mechs like Tarn crave, and if his vocalizations are anything to base it off of, he’s right.

He climbs up onto the chair, stepping through the thick reluctance of Tarn’s field, the buzz of confusion, the grainy static of building pleasure, and drops his knees on either side of Tarn’s thigh, hovering himself high and away from his array. He’d told Tarn if they were going to do this, they wouldn’t touch any more than was necessary, but this feels necessary, and clearly won’t be reciprocated. He presses his chest against Tarn’s abdomen, flicking the ring in his spike with one hand and sliding the other up Tarn’s plating with the other to grab onto the ropes again.

“This isn’t enough for you.” It’s a statement, not a question. He twists a knot under his fingers, sending the sensation down most acutely now to the ring around the base of his spike, where the sound penetrates inside.

Tarn’s answer drowns in a groan when Pharma grinds the ring against his spike.

“You said you’d decide, but I know I’ve already convinced you. I know how badly you want release. I’m not talking about overloads.”

“You’re testing my patience, Doctor,” Tarn rasps. His chest heaves against Pharma’s arm, still trying to suck the air in from the outside, never having fully cooled.

The medic drops the knot and lets his hand land on his target—Tarn’s neck. It wraps around the cords, sliding sideways and back to nestle into a deep, wide hold, though for now it just rests above the rope, not applying any pressure. “I’m testing your limits, and finding I’ll have to build them up. You’re already ready to come again, but I can still make you want it more.” His optics probe inside the mask, getting a closer look at the marred mesh of his face than he’s sure Tarn normally allows.

Pharma knows exactly how hard he would have to squeeze. He could do it, too, one handed. The glory of being a medic, and all the blessed dexterity that comes with it.

“Do it,” Tarn tells him.

Pharma applies the same pressure to Tarn’s neck as his spike. Tarn’s optics spark as Pharma slowly squeezes around his intake, crushing the cords and the space against the chair so that if he wanted to, he could make that pressure extend to his spinal cord. Enough power on that, and he might separate his spark from his brain and end him.

Mutually assured destruction is one thing; Pharma knows if anything were to happen to their leader, the rest of the DJD would know exactly who to go after, and he’s not interested in meeting that kind of demise. But beyond that, he senses a bizarre barrier of trust rising between them—the kind between a doctor and a patient. It’s a bit sickening, this monster trusting him, when Pharma would love to feel his spark fizzle out beneath his hands. He’d love to know what it feels like to suck the life out of him, even though he won’t indulge. He’s not some petty murderer. There’s not enough class in this. It’s not smart enough for him. But Tarn will let him get close, and there’s a specific kind of allure in that to him.

He works his one hand around Tarn’s spike carefully, so that the sound is only allowed to ease out of it so slowly.

“You haven’t lasted as long as I thought,” Pharma muses as his hands slowly eeke tighter around the flexible cords of Tarn’s neck. He makes a strangled noise in response. “Interesting. But see how much you want it now? See how good it feels to be riding the edge, but I won’t let you come?”

Tarn growls, but is otherwise too preoccupied in his own pleasure to respond. His spike burns and throbs in Pharma’s grip, the sound likely applying pressure around the very entrance now as enough of it has been squeezed out to jostle when he pumps his hand. He can hear Tarn’s fingers screech against the metal of the chair, and, as before, his joints squeak as his frame moves in small protests against the bonds and Pharma’s treatment of him.

“Ask me,” Pharma tries, gripping just the head of Tarn’s spike and teasing the sound back into it again with his dexterous fingers. “Ask me, please Pharma, may I overload?” He’s growing a little drunk on power the longer this dance goes on, the more Tarn lets him get away with. He’s lovely to tease, lovely to look down on.

Tarn groans again. His voice is strangled by Pharma’s grip, vocalizer crimped to a gravelly sound when it flexes to work. “ _Medic_ —” Pharma drives the sound in a bit more and Tarn’s arm gives a horrible wrench. Some of the thick metal bands across one arm do snap off, but he remains stuck for the time being. “ _Now,”_ he rasps.

“Nicer,” Pharma insists. The sound is nearly all the way in again, and by now his hand has certainly caused some damage to the inside of Tarn’s intake.

“ _Pharma!_ ” Tarn growls at him, but it’s got an almost imperceptibly desperate tinge to it— something hollow and empty and wanting that shoots straight through Pharma’s own core. He expertly twists his hand, pulling the sound out of Tarn’s spike, flinging it away once it’s free so it clatters on the floor, and gives him a final squeeze up from the base. Transfluid gushes from the spike under his grip in hot, messy spurts.

Pharma watches the overload wrack Tarn through his optics and his shuddering frame and he grins, feeling the response of simmering triumph slip out through his own field and finding he doesn’t care if it does. He hopes it rubs raw against Tarn’s recovering, overstimulated frame.

With reluctance, he flits back, maneuvering himself off the chair and landing sharply on his feet, trying to quell the hunger inside of him by fixing Tarn with a cold, aloof gaze. “Messy,” he observes. “But judging from what you produced, I’d say I passed your little test.”

There’s a pant evident in Tarn’s voice. “Unbind me.” It’s not a request, it’s an order. Pharma doesn’t sass as he obeys, replaying over and over the visions of this abhorrent Decepticon suffering ecstasy under his hand. Surges of something pass through his frame in waves; pride, maybe, but somewhere in there might be the thrill of survival as well, given Tarn’s reputation. His fingers chatter against the last band as he twists the lock free, allowing Tarn to rise out of the chair at last.

He shakes loose the chains and bands and they make a cacophony as they fall. He also hooks his sharp claws into the organic spun rope looped around his frame and tears it loose. Pharma watches as those red threads splinter, rendering an hour of work as useless garbage. It’s an alluring sort of show, a meager display of the power contained in this one mech that for a while, Pharma had controlled. Now rises the promise that Pharma’s frame could splinter under those hands just as easily as the rope His eyes linger, and he doesn’t notice Tarn looking expectantly at him.

“I’ll be in contact,” he says stiffly. He’s already tucked his spike back into it’s housing already and is standing as composed as ever. His throat looks slightly crinkled, but if it’s bothering him, he doesn’t show it.

“About those fans?” Pharma asks airily. “Or greasing up your creaky old joints? Or maybe patching up your intake?” A smug smile tugs painfully at the corners of his lips, but he keeps it down.

“About whether or not we have an arrangement,” Tarn says. There’s a pause, and Pharma watches those optics with his own sharp intellect. He’s appraising him. Tarn walks forward towards the him, as he’s in the way of the door, but doesn’t move to walk around, and Pharma feels another sharp pang rip through him.

“Perhaps next time—” Tarn steps in close and aims to curl his claws around Pharma’s chin, and a fire of heat shoots through the doctor’s frame, embodying all of his previous assumptions as he swats Tarn’s hand away. The dynamic of power has shifted because of this incidence, though Tarn could easily force it back into place with a little bit of violence, but he stays poised with his claw stilled outside the tangible bubble of Pharma’s field.

“Next time,” Pharma repeats pointedly, keeping his smile on his face even as logic reminds him they might be his last words. He watches Tarn’s optics, trying to gauge a reaction, trying to estimate if he might forget the favor done to him and forego any future favors of the same nature for the sake of his pride.

Tarn’s claw remains poised in the air, half curled. After a long, tense moment, he closes it completely, only lowering it once it’s in a fist.

“As I said, I’ll be in touch,” Tarn reiterates, simply to have the last word, and he maneuvers swiftly around Pharma and out the door. It slams shut, and the ring echos dully in his audials, drowned out by the sound of his own fuel rushing through his lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was another bit after this with Pharma but. It didn't flow right? So I cut it. Lol.
> 
> EDIT: Just kidding, it's here now. --> \-->


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter dedicated to Siv and Gale for telling me to post this lmao. Only took me a literal year.... Oh well, happy holidays??

Pharma watches the door long after it closes, standing primly with his arms crossed as he listens to Tarn’s footsteps recede. Outwardly, he appears serene, with a slight smile on his face, but inside his processor is whirling.

He turns and walks slowly back over to the table where he’d prepared his instruments. Upon reaching it, he grips the edge and leans forward, shuttering his optics and drawing in a long, barely shaking vent.

Having Tarn under his knife, so to speak, had had a strong effect on him, moreso than he’d predicted. The leader of the DJD bound in his office, tolerating his ministrations by inches. That fraying grind of his voice against Pharma’s spark in those moments he let it loose betraying a real danger not so easily acknowledged when dealing with this iteration of Tarn; petty and proud, short-tempered and violent, but clearly tethered below what heights he might reach due to some ridiculous authority complex. All signs would point to Megatron, Pharma notes lazily and with a lack of interest. That Decepticon patriotism has always bored him, but in this case, it affords him a certain benefit.

Pharma’s hands squeak against the metal of the table as he grips it tighter. He brings his optics back to focus, tuning into his frame and realizing he’s venting hard now that he’s allowed his composure to slip a bit, so he might as well go all the way. He lets his panels snap open at last and after a quick calculation, grabs one of the smaller toys off the bench. 

He flings himself onto the chair, leaning back and spreading his legs wide to immediately thrust his fingers into himself. There’s no pleasure intended here; that’ll come later. For now it’s a pure, medical stretch, aided by the already considerable amount of lubricant seeping from his valve. His other hand pumps his spike with the same aggressive squeeze he’d treated Tarn to. He pants, fans spinning on full now after long minutes of hacked medical shortcuts to keep them off for the sake of—professionalism, or something. 

Pharma groans, long and low, feeling a shiver ripple outward through his core as he verbally acknowledges his own arousal at last. He shoves his fingers deeper into himself and spreads them hard and fast, feeling the air prickle against the inside of his valve as it’s exposed by his motions. His calipers flex hopefully, trying to close around nothing as Pharma holds himself open, unstimulated, baiting himself for another moment. 

He releases his spike and reaches for the toy, sliding it over his array sloppily just to coat it in a bit of lubricant before he presses the head up against himself. He squeezes it in roughly, not ignoring the burn and stretch of the inadequately lubricated toy, but relishing in it, because that’s how Tarn would take him. That’s exactly what he wanted, right before he left. What he tried to clumsily imply.

Oh, but they’re a long way off from that. Pharma moans again at the thought of breaking down the Decepticon’s sense control enough to finally relinquish it back over to him. It would be a precise operation, but of course Pharma is nothing if not famous for that such things. How delicately he could walk that line, pushing, punishing Tarn, teasing and taunting him, but narrowly avoiding bending Tarn’s patience so hard that he would break (and break him). He could relax that solid, sickly spark, sneaking into his trust so slowly and carefully that Tarn wouldn’t notice the balance of power leaking from his own hands into Pharma’s.

Pharma sucks in another vent, feeling his plating stretch and expand as cool air rushes over his internal systems while his valve remains hot and molten. He grinds the toy in against his flickering nodes with the heel of his palm and it begins to lubricate more, slowly, as his calipers enjoy the challenge of squeezing around the thick spike inside him. He’s stuffed as full as this little preparation will allow, and yet he knows this is no representation of how Tarn would handle him. He almost wishes he had grabbed a bigger toy, but this one will have to do for now. He scrapes his thumb across the switch, and the device is struck by thick vibrations. Pharma moans again, fisting his spike vigorously. 

He wants to grind his fingers into his node, get as many points of stimulation on himself as he can. He wants to be overwhelmed, overstimulated, desperate, like he could be with Tarn’s wrath unleashed on him. He’s built up the want watching that beast rise to pleasure under the punishing attentions of his hand, twisting a coil of tension inside of him. What it would be like for him to release it, to allow that spring to snap back...

But Tarn’s field had simpered and moaned after a few forced overloads, melting down at the same pace as any other mech, and yet he held on to his filthy Decepticon pride, as if it could supplement his dignity. Pharma could feel the uncertainty during the entire exchange. It had been a gamble making the offer, as dangerous as pushing Tarn’s patience during their actual encounter, but Pharma had the advantage of having nothing to lose. If Tarn was going to kill him, there was little he could do about it, so he wouldn’t bother wasting processing power on it. 

But it was clear Tarn had never allowed anyone to treat the masochistic undertones of his sadism. He’d accepted Pharma because he hadn’t seen him as a threat, but once it became obvious he could deliver, Tarn lost his metric by which to judge where he should be dominant or when he should submit. And it was entirely possible he either hadn’t noticed or would not admit it to even himself.

Calling back to the look on his face when he’d slapped his hand away is nearly enough to make Pharma overload, but he chokes back on the urge by carefully contracting a couple internal systems impatiently, and then immediately resuming.

Pharma scoots back on the chair, turning himself around so he can hook his legs over the seams of the chair where the arms meet the back, drawing himself up against it so the toy pushes in deep against him. He keens gracefully against his own movements, letting a shout of pleasure escape him as he begins to beat his spike again. His other hand moves down below it, and he forces the flat edge between his thumb and his wrist against his node, grinding roughly enough that it could be the full weight of a large mech pressing flush against his frame.

Pharma is confident Tarn will be back. He will come back for more, and Pharma will teach him to submit. He’ll make Tarn beg to have him fitted snug around his spike, poised over him, controlling exactly how fast and hard they would fuck, and allowing him to overload if he’s exceptionally well-behaved.

Or he’ll fit a collar round the Decepticon’s neck like some kind of domesticated turbofox, keeping that taut tension choking around his neck as Pharma guides him to screw that fat spike into him. Or maybe he’ll remove his mask and make Tarn taste him. 

The scenarios flood Pharma’s processor. He sings out little sounds purely for his own benefit, more self stimulation to go along with the hand on his spike and the fingers scrubbing his node and the spike thrumming thickly inside him. His turbine roars and his wings flex, and he imagines Tarn on top of them, that thick, broad chest scratching off his carefully manicured paint. 

He loses track of which fantasy it is in particular that brings him to a peak, but he crashes down through it still working his whole array between his hands and the chair. Every cord in his body tenses and releases, twitching open like his valve after it flutters around the spike inside him. His frame is spattered with his own transfluid. He licks his lips, hands relaxing off his equipment, but thighs remaining poised.

Pharma grinds his hips experimentally against the chair’s back, feeling the toy nudge in a circle against his dimming nodes. The sensation is unpleasant, but it doesn’t have to be. He lets his spike retract, channeling all his reception to the other portions of his array. If Tarn could have two, he can give himself two. 

He presses his fingers between his body and the chair, positioning them directly over the center of the toy so when he grinds in, he can flit his fingertips forward to thrust it deeper in himself. He could easily keep Tarn from overloading when he himself had already reached peak charge, and then have him fuck him to completion again while his frame shuddered in protest. But he won’t get there like this.

He scoots back and lets the toy squeeze out of his valve enough to grip it, pulling it back and teasing it along his swollen lips before he slams it back into himself. Moaning, shouting into the empty echoing silence of his locked ward, he frags himself back up to charge on pure stimulation and fantasy—Tarn’s insistence, like his own, overpowering, intoxicating, inevitable. He forces his body to accept overload, just as he’d forced Tarn’s to do the same. 

He comes again, and his hips arc off the chair into his working hand, his own fans roaring in his audials. When he gradually stills, riding the aftershocks, he leaves himself stuffed and lies limp and upside-down as he thinks to himself that this is going to be a very lucrative new connection.


End file.
